A Day in the Life of Linda 'Wolf' Kaufmann
by Destro-of-the-worldses
Summary: There's only one 3rd Gen at the Agency, and this is what a day in her life could entail.


Disclaimer: I don't own Gunsling Girl, and I robably never will unless I become a billionaire and by the rights to it, though that seems _highly_ unlikely.

* * *

She swung her arm at the alarm clock as it buzzed to alert the cyborg it was 0600. Once the incessant buzzing stopped, she groggily pushed herself up, rolled over and sat up in her bed. Her sheets were spread everywhere but on the bed. She had been drinking last night, but not enough to get hung-over; at least she had thought so the previous night.

She crawled out of bed and slipped on an empty beer bottle, landing hard on her bum. "Well, you've done it again Linda," she said to herself, "you brought beer into the cyborg dorms again. Jean'll be pissed if he finds out."

Linda got off the ground, staggered over to her drawers and pulled on some underwear, followed by a pair of denim jeans and a plain grey t-shirt. Looking around her room, she picked up her shoulder holster and put it on, then started searching for her black 1911. She eventually found it under her bed. "What were you doing under there?" she wondered as she slipped it into the holster. She continued to search though, still looking for her favourite black leather jacket, however failing to find it, she settled on a black suit jacket instead.

As the Third Gen tumbled out the room, she encountered Triela, leaning on the wall next to Linda's room, the black haired, blond streaked cyborg's leather jacket over her crossed arms.

"Good morning," the First Gen grinned.

Linda scratched her stomach and pointed at her jacket, "Morning. Where'd you find that?"

Triela's grinned broadened, "You actually gave it to me when you stumbled in last night."

Linda hung her head in her hands, "I didn't do anything else last night did I?"

"You didn't offer anyone a drink this time, if that's what you're wondering?"

Linda sighed with relief, "Thank God"

"You did tell everyone how much you loved them though," the blond giggled, "Poor Soni, you wouldn't let her go, kept saying that you'd take her biking around the countryside. Here."

Linda took off her suit jacket and threw it into her room, quickly put on her leather jacket. "Well, I guess I should apologise and explain that I can't," she said as the two walked to the dining hall.

"Relax," Triela said reassuringly, "we all know not to take you seriously when you stumble in drunk. You may have to talk to José though. As entertaining as your old war stories are, José seems a bit upset with the stuff he's heard from Henrietta."

"What is it exactly that he's complaining about?"

"Some of your stories are…" Triela searched for the right wording, "… explicit."

"Oh, that stuff. Honestly, I would have thought Hillshire or Jean would have complained first," Linda noted.

Triela chuckled, "Hillshire doesn't know. Not too sure why Jean hasn't complained though."

000

Linda sat against the wall with her arms crossed as she watched the other cyborgs practicing at the indoor range. Even before she volunteered to be the first – and only due to cost – Third Generation cyborg, she had helped the cyborgs at the range. She had been a qualified instructor back in Carabinieri which was part of the reason she had come to the Agency in the first place.

She got up and spread Fleccia's feet a little with her own, "You'll be more stable with your feet like this."

"Thankyou, ma'am."

"Linda," Vincent, her Handler, barked – so that he could be heard above the gunfire – from the doorway, "We've got work to do."

Linda went to attention and crisply saluted, barking, "Yes, sir!" Vincent hated it when she did that.

"The target's name is Ilia Huber," Vincent began as they walked to Linda's room to get her keys, motorcycle helmet and saddle bags. Since she always rode her Harley and he preferred to drive his car, they had to conduct their briefings before they got on the road. Even though Linda had a hands free she used when riding, Vincent didn't, so it was difficult for them to communicate on the road. "An Austrian national and arms dealer looking to do business with the FRF. The Jean/Rico and Sandro/Petra Fratelli are on the scene and they want us there in case he decides to try and run."

"Are there any other Fratello en route?" Linda asked after she had retrieved her keys, helmet and saddle bags from her room.

"The José/Henrietta Fratello will be providing overwatch, but won't be on the scene for at least an hour. Where are you going? Vincent asked as Linda turned towards the armoury.

"I'll need a Model 12."

000

Linda drove her Harley right up to Jean's van and knocked on the window, pretending to ask for directions, "Ready when you need me, sir."

In turn, Jean pretended to give directions, "Good. Stay out of view for now; I think he may be onto us."

Linda thanked him and rode off down the street and stopped just near the end, pretending that something had gone wrong with her bike and that she was trying to fix it.

A few moments later, Jean, Rico, Sandro and Petra burst from the van and charged the building across from them. Not long after that, Jean called out over the radio, "He's getting away, stop him!"

Linda quickly put her tools back in the saddle bag, pulled down her face plate, and jumped on the bike just in time to see the dark green sedan burst from the garage and speed off in her direction.

"Linda…!" Jean began.

"I'm on it," she said, not letting him finish.

She kicked the bike into gear and sped off after the escaping criminal.

This guy must have been insane, as well insanely good, managing to get up to 100kph despite the heavy traffic.

"When's the helicopter getting here?" Linda yelled into her hands free, "I can't keep on this guy forever."

"They need your location," Jean replied calmly.

"Third street, heading west at ninety five kay-pee-ache," she shouted as she weaved between a hatchback and a truck.

"ETA two minutes."

Linda swerved to avoid a woman with a pram, muttering to herself, "José'd better hurry up."

Fifteen minutes later, after relaying her new location, direction and speed several times, José and Henrietta arrived in the helicopter. "There's heavy traffic ahead," José informed Linda, "take your next left, then go north-east to cut him off."

Linda took the left turn, "Ten-four, overwatch."

"Now take the fifth right. You'll be right alongside him."

"Got it."

Linda turned back to the main road and nearly ran into the green sedan. She pulled the Beretta Model 12 from her saddle bag and fired at the driver's side window. The 9mm rounds did little to the bullet proof glass than weaken it slightly. She threw the SMG at the window and it became embedded in the glass.

Ilia got distracted by Linda's attacks, and so didn't see the police van pulling out in front of them. Linda skidded to a stop just in time. The van and the sedan – now occupying the same space – knocked over a street light and came to a halt after crashing into a used book store.

Linda drove up to the crash site and dismounted her bike to see if there were any survivors, though she doubted it, the vehicles had hit pretty hard.

"What are you doing?" José said frantically over the radio, "There's no way anyone survived that, just get out of there, people are gathering."

"I need to check," she said calmly. There was already quite a crowd, but no one besides Linda was going to help. She looked inside the van first. Thankfully there had only been a single officer on board, but shards of glass had torn through his face, neck and chest. There was blood everywhere. He was dead.

The helmeted woman walked to the back of the van where the sedan had collided. Ilia had been crushed on impact. Linda nearly vomited in her helmet.

She got back on her bike and said to José, "Okay, overwatch, I'm getting out of here."

000

Linda had just finished filling out her share of the paperwork, and decided to give Vincent a visit, knowing that her bespectacled Handler would still be in his office.

She stood beside the office door and made her plan of attack. Linda looked around to make sure no one was around and quickly took off her jacket and shirt, then put the jacket back on, leaving it unzipped enough to reveal an adequate amount of cleavage. Although she had tried this technique before, but third time was a charm, right?

Linda knocked on the door.

"Enter," Vincent said crisply from the other side. "Oh, hello, Linda," he said when she followed the instruction, "did you need something?"

She leaned forward on the desk, exposing more of her bosoms, "I was thinking that we could go get some coffee or a bite to eat or something when you're done here?"

"No thank you," he said without looking up from his work, "I'm not hungry. If there's nothing else, I have a lot of work to do."

Linda stormed off, throwing her hands in the air and muttering, "That blind bloody Nazi, wouldn't know how to have a good time if it hit him in the face," leaving the bespectacled fool to wonder what was wrong.

As Linda always did after a bad day at work – which usually meant innocents getting killed – she went to her favourite bar to try and cheer up, Mikhail's. Of course, she normally went there anyway.

000

"Evenin', everybody," she said as she walked in at eight on the dot.

"Linda!" the other regulars all shouted back. She had been a regular since joining the Carabinieri.

"Can I draw you a beer, MissKaufmann?" Angelo, the other bartender besides Mikhail, asked as Linda sat on her barstool.

"No thanks, I already know what they look like. Just pour me one."

"Tough day," Mikhail asked as Linda received her beverage. They all knew that she couldn't tell them much about her work, but she was capable of being vague enough not to get in trouble but still give them some idea of what happened.

"You hear about that accident downtown with the car hitting the police van? The Nazi driving the car deserved it, but that officer in the van…" Linda shook her head and had a long drink, "looked old enough to have a couple of kids. Wasn't anything I could do for him."

"Cheer up, Wolf," Andrea said, putting an arm over Linda's shoulders and using a nickname she had earned in the Carabinieri. Andrea had been one of the men Linda had helped out at the range back in the Carabinieri, and one of her only friends that she was still in contact with from her old life. "Why don't you tell us how your quest to conquer lover boy went today?" Lover boy was how everyone at the bar referred to Vincent; they didn't know his real name and Linda wasn't about to tell them.

"Not well. He just plain ignored me today. I've tried just about everything but kidnapping him at this point. Anyway, enough about me, how have you guys been?"

000

Linda stumbled into the Agency's cyborg dorm at about eleven-ish o'clock. All the other cyborgs would be asleep, except for Triela, who always waited for Linda to get back. No matter what generation a cyborg hailed from, they looked up to Triela like a big sister, and Linda was no exception. Though Linda was also like a big sister to the others as well, aside from Claes. Claes was in a whole other ballpark.

Tonight however, Triela wasn't waiting, so Linda decided to see if there was anything left in dining hall. The staff normally left some leftover food out in case a cyborg needed a midnight snack or something.

Someone must have moved the halls since she had last been at the Agency, because it took her twenty minutes to find the dining hall. There was light coming out from under the door. She turned the handle slowly and the door fell away, leaving Linda to fall on the ground.

"You okay?" Claes' disembodied voice asked with a hint of disapproval from somewhere in the hall. All Linda could see at the time were the silver specks dancing in front of her eyes.

"Ye… yeah, I'm… *hic* fine. Your… self?"

"Want a hand?"

Linda tried to push herself up but then decided that the floor was rather comfortable and just laid there, "No, no… I'm fine. It's actually quite… comfy."

Linda's vision began to clear in time to see Claes walking over and picking her up, then placing her on a nearby bench. "You don't normally get this drunk," Claes noted, sounding a little concerned, but still disapproving, "what'd you do?"

"You know *hic* that stuff where you suck the salt and lick the lemon…? C'mon, you know the stuff… it's… it's… tequila!" Linda snapped her fingers, "That's it, tequila. Andrea convinced me to have a couple of shots with him, which turned into… more than a couple."

Claes shook her head, "I think I need to sober you up. Wait right here."

Linda leaned back on the table and stared at the ceiling. It soon became evident that Claes wasn't going to return, and that she was playing some kind of trick on Linda. Not bothering to go back to her dorm, the Third Gen fell asleep on the table…

Ice and water splashed over Linda's face, shocking her into a conscious, sober state, "Jesus Christ!"

Claes stood over Linda, her hands on her hip, one of them holding a bucket, and a gleeful grin splitting her face, "Well; now you're all sobered up."

Linda sat up and wiped the water off her face, "yeah, I guess I am. Why the hell did you have to do it that way though?"

"Triela asked me to do it if you were too drunk."

"Where is she anyway?"

"Night op."

"Ah, alright then. Why are you waiting _here_ though?"

Claes gestured at the table she had been sitting at, which had an open book and a plate of cold food, "I missed dinner."

Linda jumped off the table, "I'll leave you to it then. I'm gonna hit the sack. Good night."

Claes sat back down and waved to Linda as the Third Gen left, "Good night."


End file.
